The Confession - Charles Todd [3]
After a moment Russell nodded. “I’m at The Marlborough. They do a decent roast lamb with mint sauce. I can enjoy the sauce still.”
The Marlborough would not have been Rutledge’s choice. He had gone there last with Meredith Channing. It wasn’t a memory he cared to revisit. But he had a feeling that if he suggested another restaurant, he could well lose Wyatt Russell.
The hotel was not very far away, but Rutledge drove them there, and Russell sat beside him in silence. He got out of the motorcar with some difficulty, but Rutledge wisely stayed where he was, offering no assistance.
Inside, Reception was busy, but the dining room was still mostly empty, since it was early for a meal.
They were conducted to a table in a corner, and Russell sat down on the damask upholstered chair with a sigh of relief.
“I should take a cushion with me these days. Sitting on wood has become a trial for me. Will you have something to drink? It’s my treat, because I shall be able then to set the rules.”
“As you wish. I’ll have a whisky.” Hoping to loosen Russell’s tongue . . .
Russell nodded, gave the order for two, and looked around. “I don’t know half these people. Before the war, I could have put a name to most of them.”
“In London often, then, were you?”
“I was young, unmarried, just down from Cambridge. Full of myself. Full of the future. In love. Essex was dull, boring. London was busy, exciting. If I even thought about it, life seemed to stretch ahead in an endless golden haze, and I expected to be happy forever. Or at least, looking back on 1914, that’s how I recall it now. It may not have been such a blissfully happy time, but it does no harm to think so. Were you in London then?”
“I was. I seem to remember it in the same way. Were you in the war?”
“Oh, yes, rushing to sign up before it was over, chafing at the bit, afraid the Kaiser would fold before I’d learned how to fight him properly. Writing letters home from training filled with patriotism and an eagerness to kill a people I’d never met. Well, I did know a few Germans at Cambridge. Nice enough chaps, I didn’t picture them when I was hot to shoot the Hun. They weren’t the sort to bayonet Belgian babies and rape Belgian women. My cousin was fond of one of them, in fact, but the man was called home shortly before hostilities were declared, and we don’t know if he survived the fighting or not.”
“If you were in the war, how is it that you were in Essex to commit murder?”
“Yes, that’s a bit confusing, isn’t it? I was sent to London with dispatches. The house had been closed up, but I went down to have a look at it. Fowler was there, we quarreled. Opportunity presented itself, and temptation did the rest. There was a temporary airfield nearby. Zeppelin watch and night flights. The only risk was that if the body was discovered, one of the new chaps would be blamed for what happened. But apparently I was lucky. No one stumbled over him.”
“Were you married when you went to war?”
“Ah, too many questions.”
Rutledge’s whisky came. Still probing, he said, “I decided not to marry the girl I thought I was in love with. And a good thing—I think she loved the uniform more than she loved the man. The marriage wouldn’t have lasted.” And he was reminded again of Meredith Channing, whose marriage had lasted, on the cold ashes of duty.
Russell studied Rutledge for a moment over the rim of his glass. “Did it turn out well, your war?”
“Not at all well.”
“Yes, it seldom does, I expect. I found that killing people wasn’t to my liking after all. But I did my duty to my men and to my country. I was damned glad when it was over, all the same.”
“Did being a soldier make it any easier, killing your cousin?”
There was a moment’s hesitation. “The policeman again. Do you never leave him at home? It must be a bloody nuisance at dinner parties, wondering what subtle undercurrent of meaning there might be when someone asks you to pass the salt.”
Rutledge laughed.
“What made you decide to join the police? Why not become a lawyer, instead, if you were hell-bent on punishing evildoers?”